


Incandescence

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A lot - Freeform, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, But what else is knew?, Fluff, Gen, John is hella supportive, Like so much, M/M, Sherlock is sad and lonely, Slow Burn, Teenlock, They get into trouble, WAY more angst, more tags will probably be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:13:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In modern society, it's extremely rare for a child to be born without an Ability. </p><p>For the first 6 years of his life, Sherlock Holmes has had the firm knowledge that he is one of these rare cases, until an impromptu fire as his primary school changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

"Believed to be working for the devil, many women during the medieval period in Europe were hunted, trialled and very often killed under the false accusation of being witches. 

"For most, their death was unjustifiable, with no actual evidence to warrant their being a 'witch'. On the off few occasions however, the prosecutors were close to being right. As the women being executed often had a small connection to one of the five Harths, who were the first to posses the gene. It's believed that each of them possessed one of the Wu Xing, an ancient Chinese philosophy regarding the five elements. However, seeing as no one has had an Ability such as one of those within the last one hundred years, and that no direct decedents can be traced, it's most likely to be rubbish. 

"The select few's 'magical' Abilities were mainly owing to the fact that mutations within the cells began to occur within certain genes, causing more supernatural elements to become a natural human trait. Supernatural elements that have since been proved by science. In some cases, anyway.

"Since then, the mutations have been able to flourish, and there's more cause for concern when a child is born with no Abilities." 

Mrs Merriweather placed the workbook on the table, with the almost ineligible handwriting facing the two confused parents sitting opposite. 

"That seems fine to me," offered Siger, gripping his wife's hand tenderly. Violet nodded in agreement, although neither of them looked at the scribble laid down in front of them. 

"Yes, the writing is fine," Mrs Merriweather said through pursed lips. "Quite advanced for a six year old, actually. What isn't fine however, is the drawing of a bee taking up most of the page, along with what I can only presume is a pirate ship." She jabbed her neatly manicured index finger at the bee's sting, which seemed to be shooting lasers at a stick figure with 'Jason' scrawled next to it.

Violet's face dropped, and Siger glared at the teacher while offering his wife the only comforts he could muster. Opposite them, Mrs Merriweather sighed heavily, pulling off her spectacles and letting them hang around her neck. She leant forwards, lacing her bony fingers together with a desperately sorry look on her face.

"Look," she started, the harshness now gone from her voice in an exchange in attempting to be comforting. "Sherlock excels in everything he does, but I can't have him in Mutation. He becomes disruptive, restless, and an all round nuisance. If not for the sake of the others in the class, who actually need to be taught how to hone their Abilities, then at least let me take Sherlock out of this lesson for his own benefit. It's not fair on him. It's a difficult enough world for children without Abilities as it is, without putting them through two hours of learning about what they're supposed to be. I'm sorry, but it's all I can do." 

Outside the classroom, Sherlock was laying on the floor with his ear pressed to the crack under the door. He felt awful. He was proud of that drawing, too, and had wanted to ask if he could take it home for Redbeard and Mycroft to see. Mycroft would appreciate it, at least. That much he did know.

Deciding that he'd heard enough, he scrambled up onto all fours and twisted himself round, leaning his back against the door and glaring at the abyss of a corridor that lay before him. 

Coat pegs lined the walls; one peg for each person in the two classes. Sherlock scanned them where he sat, scowling as he flickered over each picture, name, and Ability. 

Everyone had an Ability. Everyone it seemed, except him. Isabelle, of course, could turn invisible. She took great pleasure in stalking him without him knowing, and then quickly running up behind him and yanking his hair. Sherlock would yell, kick, and punch the air behind him but with no prevail. Mrs Merriweather never believed his accusations of it being Isabelle, because no one had ever seen her do it. It was infuriating.

He frowned at her name and picture as he looked at it, before moving onto the next one. 

Jason was another one who Sherlock would rather avoid. Apparently, not having an Ability meant that Sherlock was somehow inferior, something that Jason seemed to take as gospel. Admittedly, Sherlock didn't help himself. Pointing out that he was cleverer than his bully never went down well, even more so when he took it one step further by proving it and yelling to the class that Jason still wet the bed, and believed in Santa. Mrs Merriweather had had to send him out while she calmed down the very distressed class.

Despite that however, Sherlock honestly didn't feel it necessary for Jason to break his Lego model, or to squeeze his milk carton over his head. Those (as far as he was concerned) were a bit too mean. 

He shook himself, coming out of his trance and going back to glaring at the picture. However, his concentration was lost completely by the sound of the fire alarm echoing around the school building. 

Shooting up like a Jack in the Box, Sherlock stared in bewilderment as smoke began unfurling around the corner. Simultaneously, both Jason's and Isabelle's laminated pictures erupted into flames, and Sherlock yelped as the rest followed suit. 

Black smoke blocked the lights like thick storm clouds cover the sun, and the corridor was cast into an unnerving darkness. The only light source being the orange flames running along the walls and catching onto the artwork displays. 

Within an instant, the classroom door swung open and his father's arms were around him, picking the screaming Sherlock up and tucking him under his body as he stooped, protecting him from the billowing smoke. As they darted through the classroom and towards the fire exit, more eruptions of great powerful flames leapt up from other areas, completely unconnected to the corridor. 

Sherlock screamed and gripped his Dad's coat as a pot of pencils exploded next to them; his Dad starting talking to him, trying to calm him down as he wriggled around in his grasp. Although his words went ignored, the fact that Sherlock could hear something other than the crackle and roar of flames was a comfort.

"Nearly there," his Dad soothed, and Sherlock gripped his Dad's jacket tighter. It felt as though they'd been in the building for an hour, but in truth it was barely pushing a minute since the bell had first started ringing. 

Within a few moments, they burst out into the open and Sherlock found himself gulping in the clean, crisp oxygen, sprawled out on the playground concrete with his Dad laying next to him. Raising his head, he watched on as the building he'd been standing in a few moments prior collapsed. Flames reaching into the air as the roof gave way, and smoke blossoming into the sky to join the pearly white clouds. 

His mother rushed over then, pushing him into sitting and rubbing his back. Next to him, his father rolled over, blinking, coughing, and propping himself onto his elbow. While both his parents fussed over him however, rubbing the soot off of his face and out of his hair, Mrs Merriweather still managed to keep up her fierceness. 

"Sherlock," she said, crouching down so that she was level with him. He couldn't pretend to like her. They hated one another. But coupled with the scare of the fire still burning away merrily in front of him, he was more or less forced to listen to her. "How did the fire start?" 

He blinked. "I don't..." 

"You're lying to me," She immediately cut across. "You started the fire." 

Sherlock shook his head earnestly. Of course he hadn't started the fire. Was he really that stupid? Why would he set fire to a building he was sitting in? Daft woman. 

"I didn't." 

"You did." Mrs Merriweather shot back, more sternly. A few metres away, Mrs Holmes made an attempt to get to Sherlock, wanting to protect him from the teacher; but Siger held her back, shaking his head.

"I didn't!" Sherlock implored, growing frantic. Next to him, a potted plant where the children often used to bury their cars exploded into an angry fireball of flames, causing Sherlock to jump. He made a mad dash towards his parents, and this time Merriweather let him go. 

She straightened up, brushing ash from her purple pencil skirt and repositioning her gold-rimmed glasses. 

"Mr and Mrs Holmes," she began, watching the family as they took Sherlock into their arms. "I have a proposition to make."


	2. Chapter Two

Another day, another appointment. 

Sherlock carelessly ran his fingers over the badge pinned to the lapel of his jacket, feeling every bump and scratch it's somehow managed to sustain over the many years he'd owned it. While most patients only required a normal badge; he was there so often that they didn't bother with giving him a standard stick-on one whenever he had an appointment, instead they gave him a shiny silver one. 

To make him feel important. 

His index finger dipped into the crook of the letters, carved into the metal and filled in a rich black acrylic. He didn't need to look at it to know what it said. It had said the same thing for the past 11 years: 

'Holmes - Fire. Approach with caution.'

Quickly, his fingers laced underneath it and pushed up on the pin, bringing it out of the clip and back through the fabric. Once it was off, he slipped it into his pocket and awaited the hammering he'd receive for taking it off. Why should people be warned of his Ability? He wasn't warned about theirs.

Standing up and stretching, Sherlock began to glance over the bookshelves aligning the walls. Thickly bound novels of intricately designed drawings and diagrams met his eye, all depicting far too complicated explanations for what was really an all too obvious fact. 

Fire destroyed. Sherlock created fire. Sherlock destroyed.

It was a simple statement, and there were plenty of cases to back it up. Such as the time he'd gotten annoyed and set Mycroft's hair on fire, or (more recently), when he'd accidentally let his emotions get out of hand while chasing someone who he knew had done something unforgivable. 

The fight had been heating up, with lots of half formed insults pouring from the criminals mouth as Sherlock planted a firm right hook on his cheek. The man scarpered, and Sherlock somehow found himself chasing the bloodied up man himself. He still maintained that he'd have been able to catch him if he hadn't caught sight of a gas canister instead. Although secretly, he was pretty damn pleased with the resulting explosion. The man had died in hospital a few hours later from severe first degree burns, and Sherlock had been banned from anymore of his "silly adventures." 

The top two shelves supported the ancient books, full of philosophies and guidance pertaining to people's Abilities. However, the very bottom shelf held brightly coloured red ring binders, all filed neatly and ordered properly. 

In each one of these ring binders were extensive reports regarding Sherlock and his Ability. He gently kicked one of them. If only he could get away with burning them. Then he'd have one less thing to worry about; aside from losing his temper. 

Because, and the simple truth remained, Sherlock was dangerous. That really was all there was to it. 

Growing bored of the files, he turned his attention towards the wall behind him. Painted white, it featured all of Mrs Merriweather's greatest achievements as depicted by various trashy newspapers. Sherlock's stomach rolled over as he remembered the events leading up to every single one of them being published. 

'Local Primary School Blaze' was the initial headline. That one wasn't so bad. Sherlock had only had a small mention, as more of the attention was directed towards the unknown events that had started the fire. However, someone then let slip that it was him who had caused the flames, and Sherlock's world fell on it's head.

'School Boy Sets School Alight' began to emerge, and his mum and dad had to assure him constantly that it wasn't his fault. The police weren't taking it like that, at any rate. 

Despite this, Sherlock still felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. As later (once the flames were extinguished completely and the building was safe to enter again), a dead body was found crushed under a metal beam. Sherlock had been horrified when he later discovered that it had been the caretaker who'd died. He'd have probably felt a bit less bad if it had been someone else. Like the fifth year teacher. Or Mrs Merriweather. 

However, it wasn't Mrs Merriweather who'd died, and the agreement had been made when the woman had announced to the world that she'd discovered a Harth Heir. 

Of course his mum and dad had worked it out, and Mycroft had simply sneered it at him as he passed by on his hunt for a glass of milk once they'd returned home. Although Sherlock did point out that Mycroft was a telepath, and therefore his coming to the conclusion wasn't as impressive as his own. 

No, it wasn't with any of their permission that Sherlock's Ability was announced. It was his formidable teacher who'd phoned the press. 

'Harth Heir Discovered! First in 120 Years!' 

They saw the news paper article before anything else. Pushed through the letterbox, a shouting match had sprung up between Sherlock and Mycroft about who was going to pick it up off the welcome mat and take it to Mr Holmes in his study. Their mother had yelled for them both to do it, and a few moments later had rushed in to find a singed newspaper and a haggard Mycroft attempting to calm down a very distressed Sherlock.

As Sherlock reread the article, he pressed his gum to the back of his teeth and chewed it uninterestedly. It was flavourless now. He took it out of mouth and stuck it behind the wooden frame encasing the article. By now he estimated that there were at least twenty chewed up pieces of gum behind each of the four frames. 

"Name badge." 

He jumped as the door pushed open, and Mrs Merriweather narrowed her eyes as she surveyed him. Sherlock merely stated at her, devoid of emotion but rubbing his index finger and thumb together. 

"Name badge," she repeated, stalking past him on narrow heeled green shoes. Her hair was tied in a messy French plait, her dark brown roots standing out a mile against her dyed blonde hair as it frizzed in different directions, and her grotesquely green three-piece suit was stiff around her as she walked. Sherlock could've sworn he heard the crunch of the material bend as she sat down behind her neatly organised desk. 

Frowning, Sherlock put the badge back on and sat down opposite her, not being able to contain his glare while she fumbled around with forms. 

Her 'discovery' of Sherlock's Ability had meant that she'd become his own personal Mutation teacher, resigning from her position at the school to try and hone Sherlock's Ability herself. Because: "talent like this doesn't deserve to be mingled with the normal rabble," as she so often put it. Although if the 'rabble' consisted of 100 Jason's and Isabelle's, then Sherlock would rather have that any day.

Since then, she'd managed to worm her way into an office in the Harth Parliament (the main organisation that dealt with all the political aspect of people's Abilities), and there she had stayed for an annoyingly long amount of time. The Holmes family had had to up sticks and move to London, but that really wasn't a hardship on Sherlock's part. 

"You know why you need to wear the name badge, don't you?" Mrs Merriweather asked, leaning forwards. Whenever she spoke to Sherlock, she always adopted the voice of a woman who believed she was talking to someone below herself. Simply for the fact that he was younger than her. 

In response to her question, he grunted, shrugging his shoulders and folding his arms, sliding further down into the plastic chair. 

"Why do you wear it?" She asked while Sherlock rolled his eyes. They went through this every meeting. 

"Because I'm special." He replied with a drawl. 

"Why are you special?" She was going through the whole mantra, then.

"Because I'm a Harth Heir." 

"And what does that mean?" 

"It means I have control of fire." Mrs Merriweather raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock quickly corrected himself. "Fire has control of me." 

She smiled, scribbling something on a notepad in front of her. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning I'm dangerous." He finished quickly, desperate to change the subject. "Can I go now?" He asked hurriedly, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder towards the door. His meetings with Mrs Merriweather took place on the first Tuesday of every month, and they were always the worst Tuesday's in existence. Therefore he always attempted to make them as short as possible. 

Today however, fate was on his side as her telephone began ringing shrilly in her pocket. Holding a single finger up to Sherlock, she rummaged around in her pocket before answering it.

"Speaking?" She started, and Sherlock slouched further in his chair, tapping his foot idly off of the floor in impatience. "Yes, that's right." 

At first he couldn't give two hoots as to what her apparently riveting conversation was about, until her eyes widened and she gasped, standing up and going to the large window that flanked the back wall behind her desk. 

"Bring him in." She ordered, turning around to face Sherlock with her eyes sparkling. "What's his name? John Watson? And he's known for how long? How long? Dear me. Even though it's illegal? Teenagers, eh? Alright, yes. As quickly as you can." She winked at Sherlock, who shot back a scowl. 

Sherlock continued frowning at her as she covered the mouth piece of her phone and mouthed 'Wait outside', buzzing with excitement from whatever this John Watson person had to offer her. 

Rolling his eyes yet again (he did that a lot), he stood up and opened the door, slamming it shut behind him. With any luck this new found interest would give her something to do, and he'd be able to slip quietly away and be able to get on with the rest of his day. 

For around half an hour, he found himself wandering aimlessly around the pristine parliament. Whereas The Houses of Parliament were buildings of intricate detail, full of large rooms and beautiful architecture; The Harth Parliament looked rather like a set of offices both inside and out. Because that's essentially what they were. 

The whole building was a maze of long white corridors with grey carpet and water stations, that would bore anyone stupid should they spend too long there. 

Beneath the ground floor however, it was a much different story. Long rooms stretched for miles, and Mycroft had once told Sherlock that right at the very bottom were dungeons where they kept troublesome children who wouldn't go to their meetings. Although now he though about it, that was probably a lie. But the building did stretch for miles under ground, and that was the only remnants of the old building. 

He continued walking. Taking wide but slow steps as he went, aimlessly searching around for something to do. It didn't take long for his translated wishes to come true however, as reached the reception which was teeming with people, when a shout erupted into the air. 

"Let me go-" 

The crowds parted as several burly security guards marched through, two of them dragging a seemingly very rebellious teenager behind them.

"Let me go! I need to speak to Sherlock Holmes!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Urm... Anyone have any feedback? Please? It'd seriously help me out. And yeah. These parts will never not be awkward.


	3. Chapter 3

Suit clad politicians stood stock still, clutching onto their cardboard coffee cups and forgetting about their own mundane business as they watched the resulting raucous started by the loud teenager. Sherlock (for his part) blinked, and despite the obvious appearance he needed to make; ducked behind one of the large pillars which ultimately blocked him from everyone's view, but more importantly from the growing angrier boy still shouting his name as he was hauled by.

Almost as quickly as they had started however, the yells subsided, and a babble of gossip began sweeping across the foyer like a cold draft in its place. As Sherlock peered around the pillar, he watched on as the boy was pushed into a lift; still desperately trying to get away from the man carrying him, who appeared to be security. Once the glass doors had shut, Sherlock felt as though he could relax. Sighing heavily and leaning his back up against the pillar, he shut his eyes as his face pointed towards the ceiling, gripping to the strap of his messenger bag tightly as if it were a lifeline.

It wasn't as though Sherlock wasn't used to confrontations. He very often took part in back alley fights, perfecting his kick boxing skills on cocky teenagers who thought that just because they watched the wrestling they were automatically heavyweight champions. Besides, it gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity to vent some of his annoyance as well as keeping friendly with the darker side of London - although that usually meant depositing his winnings in their spare change boxes, and occasionally solving the odd case for them there and then, as well as a few other helpful tasks that he didn't mind carrying out for them. 

The fight clubs he attended were ideal for him however, because they meant that he didn't have to use his Ability, which was possibly the only rule going. 

"Break their neck of you want," they'd say to the newer members, "but break their neck by using your Ability and you're out." 

Of course, Sherlock had been asked what his Ability was, on numerous occasions, and had even been accused of using his Ability to cheat more than once, despite the fact that he'd never divulged into anyone what his Ability actually was. A few people guessed, saying that his knowledge of working out what the competitors next move would be was down to telepathy. Despite their reasonable presumptions however, Sherlock always told them that he didn't have one. Having control over fire wasn't something one would usually shout about, especially when people were bragging about their mundane ones. Envy and jealous very often translated as violence, after all, as Sherlock discovered on multiple occasions. 

In short, the fact remained that Sherlock liked those confrontations. He could prove himself: prove that he was actually capable of looking after himself, despite what Mrs Merriweather often insinuated. But when someone wanted him and they knew about his Ability, that's when he worried. Too many past experiences had caused his anxiety levels to rise dramatically whenever the topic was brought up, so he avoided it as much as he possibly could. 

Therefore, by someone screeching his name, desperate to talk to him, having never met him before in a place where everyone knew his Ability, Sherlock couldn't help but panic. 

As he attempted to calm himself down, his phone started to go off in his pocket. The vibration was a reminder that he wasn't enclosed, as was so often his irrational fear when suffering from a panic attack. He was getting much better at dealing with them though, and most of the time they merely caused him to be short of breath for a bit, in comparison to the vomiting he used to undergo. 

Having regathered himself somewhat, he pulled it out to find a text from Mrs Merriweather, which he instinctively greeted with a groan. 

You're not needed for the rest of the day, something else has come up. Don't get into any trouble. 

Of course, this wasn't in the least bit surprising for Sherlock. From the moment he'd been kicked out of the office he'd already had it set firmly in his mind that he wasn't going back. He had better things to do with his day. Admittedly, that had meant slipping down the alleyway between the Madiha restaurant and the Happy Valley take-away to give someone a right hook, win a few fights and then sit in a local coffee shop, possibly nursing a bleeding lip while checking his emails for a good case. 

Today however, that idealistic schedule had changed entirely. That boy, whoever he was, had the most sincere desperation in his voice that Sherlock couldn't help but be intrigued, no matter how many past events warned him to avoid the kid as much as possible. Which is why he ran to the stairwell and straight back to Mrs Merriweather's office, the moment the whirring of the lift sounded. 

Because of course that boy was John Watson; the topic of Mrs Merriweather's phone conversation. How could it not be? Clearly, he'd irked the old wench somehow, and Sherlock wanted to know why. 

Upon reaching the office, Sherlock found the closed doorway flanked by two armed guards. Sherlock nodded slightly, impressed by the fear surrounding the teenager, and allowing theory after theory to run wild around his mind. God, he thought, eyes raking over the two men, what's this guy done? 

Stealing himself and working out most of the potential outcomes, he made his way slowly over to them.

"Is she in?" He asked, swinging his bag off his shoulder and nodding towards the doorway, rolling on his feet and doing his best to look carefree. Which considering how often his Mum told him off for scowling Sherlock managed to pull off quite well. 

The men exchanged knowing glances.

"Why do you want to know?

Sherlock blinked, releasing a breathily short laugh before continuing.

"I left my badge in there." He replied, pointing his index finger at the empty lapel on his chest. He'd removed the badge ages ago, and it was currently sitting comfortably in his pocket, entangled in the white wires of his headphones - rather than on a random surface in the office. But they didn't need to know that. 

"I'm sure you'll manage without it," the man on the right said, offering Sherlock a friendlily false disposition, which Sherlock immediately noted. He was a large man, with dirty nail brushes for eyebrows and a matted knot of grey Velcro for a beard, which ran up the sides of his face before retreating into a band around the back of his head; although missing the top entirely where a few short wires stuck sharply upright from where the man had missed them while shaving. As he spoke, he shifted his stance, readjusting his grip on the gun in his hand. Sherlock surveyed him closely, paying particular attention to the man's own badge, which read 'Bear 2'. Upon a quick once over of the man standing next to him, Sherlock decided what he was going to do.

"She's, ah," he paused, leaning in slightly and keeping his voice low. "She's a bit particular about the badge... This is the third time I've lost it this month." 

The man smirked, glancing towards his colleague knowingly. As the silent words were exchanged, Sherlock quickly moved forwards and grabbed the walkie-talkie from the man's belt, before keeping it tightly in his grasp behind his back. 

"It's the 3rd," the man replied, turning back to face Sherlock, who shrugged.

"Which is why she's so annoyed, I'm a bit forgetful." He explained innocently, watching the two closely. The meeting inside the room was progressing, and he feared that if he didn't hurry up then he'd miss it. Which would just be annoying.

"Sorry, kid." The man offered. "We can't let anyone in. Come back in half an hour." 

Sherlock frowned, but accepted the rejection all the same. 

"Oh, well, thank you anyway." He turned on his heel before making his way back down the corridor and through the double doors, leaving the two guards shaking their heads and tittering short laughs.

Once he was successfully concealed behind on the doors, Sherlock immediately began playing with the walkie-talkie. The two men meanwhile went back to glaring at the opposite wall, occasionally offering the other small talk. 

Running his hand over the antenna, Sherlock pressed down on the PTT button which sat on the the side of the device. He couldn't help but as he brought the device closer to his mouth.

"Bear 1, come in. Over." 

Sherlock watched as the two men responded to the crackle of Bear 1's walkie-talkie, desperately trying to hold in a laugh. It wasn't often that he got to do stuff like that, and he loved it whenever he did.

"Who is this? Over." Came the static response, both men somewhat puzzled as to who was communicating with them. As Sherlock watched, Bear 2 began hurriedly checking his belt. 

"That's not important. Break." Sherlock responded, having a bit too much fun as he watched the scene unfold. "But what I have to say is crucial to your walking out of this building, so I suggest you listen. Over." 

The men grappled with the walkie-talkie, before their reply came through.

"What do you want us to do? Over."

"At the end of the corridor there's a caretakers closet. I want you to lock yourselves inside it. Over." 

It was childish, Sherlock knew, but the men were idiots and he wanted a laugh. 

Through a crack in the door he watched as the men pondered the situation, running through it in hurried whispers. In an attempt to stop himself from laughing, Sherlock began chewing his thumb knuckle. As he watched however, it quickly turned into a gnaw as he watched on anxiously. They weren't going to move. So perhaps they weren't so easily fooled. 

"Your lives are in danger if you don't start moving now. Over." Sherlock spoke again, more sternly now.

"Or what? Over." Came the reply. Sherlock grinned. 

"Or you'll be burned to a crisp." 

Stuffing the walkie talkie into his pocket, Sherlock smirked, keeping an eye on the two men as he raised his right index finger. Within an instant, a small flame had come into being, dancing atop the invisible wick as his finger acted as candle. Still watching them, he stuck out his tongue in concentration as he balanced on his tip toes, pointing the finger at the fire alarm of the ceiling. 

With a gentle tug from Sherlock, the fire began letting off more smoke than was perhaps usual for such a small flicker, but it was enough. Within a few moments the alarm began screaming, sending the whole building in panic. 

It probably wasn't good to mimic a fire being started in a parliamentary building, but Sherlock didn't care. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. 

Bear 1 and 2 launched themselves through the double doors, frantically running to get out of the building. Had nobody taught them fire safety? 

"Kid, get out of here!" One of them yelled, brandishing his arm for Sherlock to follow. "There's a fire!"

Sherlock didn't say anything as the pair ran by, but inspected his finger instead. The flame had gone, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile. He rarely got to use his Ability (except for when his parents decided to have a BBQ every now and again and they couldn't get it to get going), so actually getting the chance to use it felt like a weight off his shoulders.

Now that the men had gone, the office door opened and Mrs Merriweather stuck her hawk-like nose out, inspecting the corridor. Sherlock quickly dove back into his hiding place, flattening his back against the wall as the woman stepped out.

He didn't hear what was said, but a few moments later the woman was striding past, head held high and heels clicking as she walked. Sherlock watched her pass, keeping a look out for the boy until-

"Don't say a word." Sherlock whispered, grabbing ahold of the teenager and spinning him around, covering his hand over the boy's mouth to silence him as Sherlock shoved him against the wall. 

Large blue eyes stared back at Sherlock, wider than was perhaps normal for them and shocked confusing rippling from his whole being. Dirty blonde hair swept across his head, untidily poking in different directions. Mrs Merriweather had completely missed John's disappearance. 

The pair stared at one another, and Sherlock noted how incredibly tired the boy looked. He was muscular, Sherlock could tell from the force of his hand's trying to push Sherlock's hand down and out of the way. Yet he was short, only coming up to Sherlock's chin as Sherlock glared down at him. Sherlock could feel the boy's lips beneath his hand, parted - he'd been about to shout when Sherlock grabbed him. 

"You can breath, you know." Sherlock muttered, and the boy's breath ran across Sherlock's hand as he exhaled. 

Leaning back, Sherlock peered around the corridor and saw that he and John were the only ones around. Giving a stern glance towards John, Sherlock dropped his hand and let him go. John spluttered.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, before John could get his breath back.

"John..." He replied, still looking slightly fearful. "John Watson."

"What did Merriweather want?" Sherlock immediately quizzed, John stared at him, to which Sherlock responded with a raised eyebrow prompting him to talk. John sighed. 

"I was looking for you." He said quietly. Sherlock frowned. Through all the shouting John had originally done, Sherlock would have thought there would be a bit more enthusiasm around finally meeting him, yet John continued to look at the floor instead of Sherlock, tapping his toes on the ground with his hands clasped behind his back. 

Still slightly confused, Sherlock turned around again to check that the corridor was clear. However, when he went back to face John again, he was greeted by John's fist colliding squarely with his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that's taken so long. I've recently started sixth-form, so it's kinda taking me a while to get myself into gear with other stuff, such as writing.   
> Anyway! How was that? Any response is welcome, and much appreciated.   
> Thank you x


	4. Chapter Four

Despite his aptitude for judging the moves people would make, John's fist colliding with the side of Sherlock's face momentarily disengaged him from all other thoughts running through his head. As such, he stumbled backwards, trying to regain his hazy balance. Even through the initial pain of being punched however, it didn't take long for Sherlock's natural instincts to kick in, and he returned in full force upon the unwitting opposition, nestling his balled fist in the crook of John's solar plexus. 

Within the few narrow nanoseconds it took for John to register what had happened and managing to take full advantage of John's stall: Sherlock retook his previous position of pinning John against the wall, hand pressed against his shoulder and pushing the distressed teenager further in to the matt-white, holding him there and rendering him helpless as a result. John wheezed, apparently winded from Sherlock's punch. After ensuring that there were no other possible attempts John could make to harm Sherlock, Sherlock leaned in and opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it. 

"Good punch," he commended, voice rasping as he tried to pull himself free. Sherlock pushed him back again with little effort, and John recognised his defeat. 

Scowling heavily, Sherlock turned his head, and noticed that John had shut his eyes whilst he squirmed under Sherlock's weight, breathing heavily. He was acting as though he was in severe pain, and Sherlock momentarily entertained the possibility that he'd seriously hurt him, but that was dispelled immediately when Sherlock noticed that John was allowing himself to be controlled like this. After all, the original punch to his face had been solid and Sherlock had clearly noted the restrained force that had gone into it. There was a lot more potential behind that punch had John wished it to be there. 

It was still curious though. Why was he acting like this? As though Sherlock had properly wounded him? It was just a simple punch. If Sherlock had really wanted to hurt him then he'd have a lot more to complain about. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he scrutinised him, still mere centimetres from John's left ear. 

"It'll convince them at any rate," John nodded towards a security camera, and Sherlock understood.

"I dare say it will," he muttered, intrigue still plaguing him as John gulped heavily - the guy certainly knew how to act. "So what's this? Hostage situation?" He continued, and when he felt a distinct shrug from John under his grasp, Sherlock loosened his hold on him slightly. 

"Something like that," John agreed, stretching his newly freed shoulder in small rotations. "We need to leave. They'll notice that we're not out the building and come looking for us, and then they'll realise that there isn't a fire..." John paused, glancing towards Sherlock momentarily, and Sherlock could have sworn he saw something along the lines of awe flash across John's face, even if it was for a fleeting moment. But it was gone as soon as it has come, and Sherlock found himself listening to John's finishing question of: "... And who will they blame that on?" 

Realising what John had said, Sherlock blinked, stepping away from him and lowering his hand completely. Honestly, he really had to work on how much one topic could throw him off. 

"What do you know about it?" He quizzed defensively, although the timidness in his voice was quickly noticed by John. 

Almost as soon as the topic had been brought up, Sherlock began feeling around in his pocket for the silver name badge that always caused him so much aggravation from Mrs Merriweather. Opposite him, John smiled wryly, pushing himself away from the wall and nursing his stomach. Maybe Sherlock had punched him a bit too hard after all. 

"I know that you're Sherlock Holmes, that your Ability is Fire, and that you're really good at punching," at that, Sherlock smiled apologetically, but John shook his head and brushed away any sympathies that Sherlock may offer him, not that there were any. "I also know that you're one of the best detectives London has to offer, which why I came to find you." 

"'Came to find me'?" Sherlock repeated, scoffing. "You were dragged in by security guards, quite literally." He said, and some of his bubbling panic dissipated at the sound of John's laugh. 

"Things got a bit confusing," John offered simply, still smiling. "Come on, we need to get out of here." 

Sherlock nodded in agreement, and the pair of them hurried down a flight of stairs towards one of the buildings many fire escapes. 

Technically, Sherlock knew he should be weary of John. He knew almost nothing about the guy, after all, yet he seemed to know an awful lot about him. 

He watched him thoughtfully as John jogged a couple of steps ahead. From this angle, Sherlock could clearly make out a few features of him that he'd previously overlooked. 

For one, his blonde hair was scruffy. It wasn't by any means long, but it stuck out at odd angles in great fluffy spikes. The back of it was flattened from where it had collided with the wall, but Sherlock distinctly noted the way it curled atop the boy's crown, like a tornado of blonde as it fanned out to the rest of his head. 

His jeans too revealed slightly too much about him. They were well worn, and although dark several patches glistened in a dark bluish silver. But he certainly didn't look poor, his jumper definitely didn't look cheap at any rate. So he liked comfort, then. Why walk around in a pair of stiff, brand new designer jeans when there were plenty of more broken in jeans available at home? 

Then there was the initial punch for Sherlock to study. The aching in his jaw had disappeared, but he knew there was a red mark there all the same. Why had he even punched him in the first place? Clearly it was to show that he meant to harm Sherlock, but he didn't want to, so why did he do it? Something wasn't adding up. 

The approached the large foyer, and through the large glass entryway hundreds of people could be seen behind a large barricade, policemen and firemen stopping them from entering the completely safe building.

"You're going to be in so much shit when they find out it was you," John said as they paused, making sure that they weren't seen by anyone outside. Sherlock shrugged. 

"I've always wanted to burn this place down," he reasoned. John looked at him and grinned, and Sherlock found himself grinning just as brightly back. 

"Do you know how to get out of here?" He asked, looking away. "We can't just walk out." 

Through the corner of his eye, Sherlock spotted the men's toilets and an idea popped into his head.

"Follow me," he muttered, quickly making his way over to the door and pushing it open. John followed closely behind, and once he was through Sherlock shut the door. 

"There's no cameras in here," he said, entering one of the cubicles and yanking strips of toilet paper out of the holders. The toilet was large and rectangular, with urinals against one side of the wall and cubicles again the other; a few sinks stood at the end closest to the door with posters about how to correctly wash your hands hanging above them. On the opposite side to the sinks stood a blank tiled wall with a small window just touching the ceiling. John watched Sherlock for a moment before deciding to help, although he took to opening up the plastic cases on the walls and stripping down the posters from them. 

"Bundle up all the paper by the window," Sherlock ordered, throwing this collection of toilet paper onto the floor, and then watching as John did the same. 

Soon enough, there was a small heap at the foot of the wall, and Sherlock wasted no time in pushing the window open ajar. He then turned to face John. 

"I'm going to have to carry you," he told him. John looked puzzled. 

"Why?" He asked, half laughing. "I can walk, you know." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"No one else has come out of the building harmed in any way. If we come out late, they'll know somethings up. Fire doesn't hurt me: I can't burn, but you can. So if I start a fire here, there'll definitely have been a fire in the building and they can't blame me. It'll take them a while to work out which fire alarm was set off, but I doubt they'll bother checking. So," he turned around, crouching down next to the heap of paper and gently nudged it. A few moments later, smoke was billowing and a fire crackling. "Technically it shouldn't be that ferocious, but I've managed to help it a bit," Sherlock told him. "Come here." 

John took a step closer, and Sherlock stuck his finger into the fire. With a sooty hand, he then smeared it across John's forehead, jumper, and hair. John glared at him the whole time he was doing it.

"Hold your breath," Sherlock stated, and John obliged. He then pinched the end of his nose, and John shot daggers at him through watering eyes. Sherlock merely shrugged. "You need to look like you've been caught in a fire. Lack of oxygen and all that," he smiled sympathetically as John shrugged. 

Then he finally let go, and John gasped for air. With one quick movement, Sherlock had spun John around, bouncing him onto his knee and was carrying him in his arms, hurrying towards the exit. 

"You could at least look like you've been in a fire," Sherlock told him as his feet slammed against the foyer floor. 

"I've never been in a fire so I wouldn't bloody know," John spat back, apparently not appreciating the fact that he was being carried. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Just shut your eyes and pretend you're asleep. I'll say you were knocked out by the fumes," Sherlock responded, and John sighed heavily before tilting his head back and shutting his eyes. As Sherlock ran, he couldn't help but shake his head and smile. Who the hell was this kid? 

He kicked the door open with his foot, and John's nostrils flared as Sherlock jostled him around. 

"Let me through!" He yelled, and the crowds parted as he carried John's 'limp' form through. 

"Take him to the ambulance," a woman commanded, pointing Sherlock in the direction of a sea of bright yellow and blue. He nodded hastily, and began heading towards it.

"What're you doing?" John muttered, still with his eyes shut and voice so low Sherlock could barely hear. The only reason he'd heard him in the first place was because he'd seen John's lips move slightly. "They'll know I haven't actually been in a fire," John continued, but Sherlock readjusted his grip on him (much to John's dismay), so that John was now facing towards Sherlock's body. 

Of course Sherlock wasn't going to go to the paramedics. Instead, he made a swift detour, skirting past a collection of policemen and across the now blocked streets. The smoke from the toilets had now been spotted, and a surge of firemen were rushing into the building. Sherlock took one last glance at the unfolding scene before ducking into an alley way opposite, John still pressed against his chest. 

The alley was dingy and dirty, with rubbish littering the floor and puddles of mush strewed along the side of walls. Before Sherlock could put John down properly, he'd leapt away from him and was looking very red. 

"Never tell anyone about that," he seethed as he recompose do himself. Sherlock raised his hand and drew an 'X' across his chest, and John sighed, leaning against the wall. Then, to Sherlock's own confusion, he began laughing.

"What?" Sherlock asked, frowning. 

"I was told you were different," John said, still chuckling to himself. "I just didn't expect you to start a fire and carry me out of a building." 

Sherlock smiled, but concern still plagued him. 

"Think of it as payback for you punching me," he offered, before pausing. "Who told you about me?" He quizzed, eyebrows narrowing. John's smile dropped, and he frowned. 

"It's a long story..." He offered, shrugging. But Sherlock remained solid, not backing away from finding out what exactly it was that John wanted from him. 

"I have time," he scowled back, but John shook his head.

"You really don't."

**Author's Note:**

> So... Hi. Yeah. Let me know what you think? Whether or not you want me to continue? Tbh I'm really excited about this one. Anyway, yeah. Future chapters will be longer though, I promise. This one was just to get it started. Thank you for reading :) (Any feedback at all is completely welcome) - Natalie


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